


Furnishing Eden

by DictionaryWrites2



Series: Eden House [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Retirement, Romance, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 05:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18793948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites2/pseuds/DictionaryWrites2
Summary: “Ah,” Aziraphale said, and his fingers settled over Crowley’s where they locked over his belly. “And I— Er. Well. That is to say… I might have bought something.”“Bought something?” Crowley repeated.“Well, an armchair. For the library.”There was a guilty pause, and Crowley sighed, pressing his forehead to the back of the angel’s neck.“It’s tartan, isn’t it?” he asked, defeatedly.





	Furnishing Eden

Crowley stood in the middle of Eden House’s kitchen, his hands resting on the counter, his lips quirked into a wide grin. They’d signed the contracts. They had the keys. He looked down at the key to his Bentley, at the additional key on the ring, alongside the key to his apartment. His  _house_  key. A house.

A  _cottage_.

“Angel,” he said, and Aziraphale looked up from the notes he’d been making.

“Yes, dear?”

“I love you,” Crowley said.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and he smiled, reaching out and cupping Crowley’s cheek. “Well, I love you too, dear. Are you— Are you really certain? You know, about… buying all of the furniture?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows were raised, his lips parted, and Crowley leaned into him, setting his hands on the well-padded set of Aziraphale’s wool-encased hips.

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Yeah, I’m certain. You don’t want to?”

“No, no,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head. “No, I should love to, my dear boy, I really do. Doing it  _properly_  and all that.”

“And retiring?” Crowley asked.

He thought, once more, about the letter. He’d agonised over it, had spent three weeks just writing it and rewriting it, walking back and forth, screaming at the walls…

_Dear Sir,_

_I write with regret to inform you I will be formally tendering my resignation from the company in order to take my retirement, and this letter serves as my week’s notice. I have decided to resign for personal reasons, owing to my appreciation for the clients, and my lessening passion for the work I do._

_Thank you for the many opportunities you’ve given me in what I can only call my lifetime here on Earth. Thank you, also, for what you’ve offered me, from your support after my Fall to your lenience in the aftermath of the events of last year, but it was time for me to go._

_Kind regards,_

_A.J. Crowley_

He’d expected a fuss, when he’d handed it in. He’d expected a fuss, a tantrum, a huge outpouring of horror and fury upon him, threats of death and torture and pain and terror. He’d expected all of Hell to rain down on his head.

None of that had happened.

He received one note, signed with a dreadful sigil that had burned his fingers when he’d touched the page.

 **FINE**.

And that was that.

Nothing changed.

His powers didn’t lessen. He didn’t feel any different. He was just—

Retired.

And Aziraphale’s letter had been received in much the same way, with the same neat cutting of ties, the, “ugh, fine, you’re more trouble than you’re worth anyway,” just the same. They were the same, he and Aziraphale. They always had been, Crowley thought – perhaps they always would be.

“And retiring?” Aziraphale repeated softly. “Why, my darling, my  _dearest_ , I wish we’d thought of it millennia ago.”

Crowley leaned in, and he drew Aziraphale’s lips under his own, kissed him, felt the warmth of Aziraphale’s soft lips and his pink tongue, and then whispered against his mouth, “I want to be like them.” He was overcome with the way it  _sounded_ , coming out of his mouth: and it was true, he knew it was true, and it had always been true, for millennia, but the words felt heavy on his inhuman tongue, and Aziraphale’s face softened as he met Crowley’s gaze.

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured. “Of course, it’s rather a moot point, my love. You and I are already far more like them than we ever meant to be.”

“I meant to be,” Crowley said.

“I know. I… I didn’t, my dear,” Aziraphale admitted, “but I am. As much as you are.”

Crowley leaned in, pressed their foreheads together, felt Aziraphale’s fat, rounded nose press against the hard angles of his own, felt Aziraphale’s soft, warm skin, took in the  _scent_  of him: feathers and wing oil, paper and wool, tweed and the barest hint of tobacco… And coiled around him like a snake, little bits of Crowley’s own scent: motor oil and silk, gun powder and green leaves, and leather.

Aziraphale sighed against Crowley’s mouth.

“I wish we could get married,” he said softly.

“We’re as good as, angel.”

“I know,” Aziraphale murmured, with a smile so warm it made Crowley’s heart swell in his chest, although there was a hint of sadness in it[1]. “I know.”

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“No wallpaper?”

“No wallpaper,” Crowley agreed. “This paint, here, this colour, and then,  _this_.” He held up the border, and he watched Aziraphale’s smile as it appeared on his face, one soft hand reaching out, so that his fingers could trace the paper of the border.

“Oh, Crowley,” he murmured softly. “It’s like—”

“It’s the Soho skyline,” Crowley said. “I thought you’d like it.”

“Such ugly buildings, you always said,” Aziraphale murmured, warmth shining from his face. He felt full to the brim with warmth whenever he was around Crowley at the moment, of course: love surrounded him like some unspoken force, and Aziraphale could happily drown himself in it.

Crowley grinned. “Yes.”

They’d realized, on the same night, that they’d both been planning it. It had been five months after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, where Crowley had arrived on Aziraphale’s doorstep just as Aziraphale was leaving.

Aziraphale had had a sheaf of neatly-printed notes in his plump hands: what they would need for land, what they would need in the house, some ideal places in England; he’d noted down adverts for various cottages for sale, with printed phone numbers, carefully written down addresses; he’d noted down a moving company where they might rent a van.

Crowley had had a ring-binder in his skinny arms: the space they would need for Aziraphale’s library, neatly mapped; colour schemes for every room, with swatches of wallpaper and paint samples; a design for his greenhouse, with a plotting map; some codes for IKEA and Argos, to make ordering things a little easier, if they got around to it…

They’d stared at one another, and then they’d stared at their respective handfuls of research, before slowly exchanging them.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale had murmured as he’d paged through images of antique furniture,  _just_  the sort of thing that Aziraphale missed.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley had murmured, staring down at a floorplan of a cottage in Cornwall, with three acres to the land around it, and with a view of the sea – they’d faxed it through to him, easy as you please.

They’d gone to dinner at the Ritz, and talked, and talked, and talked, about Crowley’s greenhouse, about a house Aziraphale really liked the look of down south, near Brighton, in a village called Chesterton-Burnleigh. Talked about retirement, about the Apocalypse, about one another, about love.

Mostly about love.

Awkwardly, and stuntedly, at first, and then with more passion, more certainty. It had gotten easier, once they’d gotten into the swing of it.

And now here they were… It was a Friday: they’d owned the cottage for four days, now. Aziraphale had spent the last three days back in London, packing the contents of his shop into boxes, to keep in storage there. Crowley had already sold his flat, but had insisted Aziraphale not sell the shop – he’d had it for two-hundred  _years_ , after all. It would be such a shame, he thought, to get rid of it, when it would sit fine without anybody there—

Crowley was decorating the cottage himself. Aziraphale trusted him, and Crowley wasn’t misusing that trust, he didn’t think: he knew what Aziraphale liked as much as he knew what he liked himself, and he’d already decided that he’d be taking most of the  _garden_ , so it was all fair to put things in the house more to Aziraphale’s specifications.

The kitchen was Crowley’s domain[2], but beyond that… The sofas in the living room were plush and made of dark, soft fabric, albeit with leather cushions. The furniture was all made of dark wood with baroque-style accents, albeit  _without_  the gilt. There were plush carpets, and heavy blankets, and so many bookshelves they would  _almost_ be able to host half of Aziraphale’s collection, and as for the bedroom…

“I’ll lie on this side,” Crowley murmured, gesturing to an imaginary bed as he wrapped himself around Aziraphale’s back, pressing his chin against the soft, yielding flesh of Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder. “That’s where the sun lands in the mornings.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, and his fingers settled over Crowley’s where they locked over his belly. “And I— Er. Well. That is to say… I might have bought something.”

“ _Bought_  something?” Crowley repeated.

“Well, an armchair. For the library.”

There was a guilty pause, and Crowley sighed, pressing his forehead to the back of the angel’s neck.

“It’s tartan, isn’t it?” he asked, defeatedly.

“Oh, but Crowley, it’s so  _comfortable_ —”

“Show me,” Crowley said, but he had put his hand over his eyes, and Aziraphale tutted at him, leading him by the hand downstairs and to the living room, where he had placed the chair in question… When Crowley drew his hand from in front of his eyes, he stared, for a long moment. “Angel,” he said, “I can’t help but notice that this is  _two_  chairs.”

“Er, yes, well,” Aziraphale said. “I… I bought the tartan one, oh, but, Crowley, it’s ever so plush.” And it was plush. That, Crowley could see: it was a tall armchair with a winged back, with curving feet, and it was  _brightly_ red. “But the other one seemed so… Well. So  _you_ , my dear. That fine leather, with no distress whatsoever, and all those modern lines.” And yes, Crowley could see that too: the other chair had a lower back, allowing for slouching, and it was made of a rich, brown leather. It was very almost  _fashionable_.

“Aziraphale, these two chairs don’t match at all,” Crowley said.

“Oh, but, Crowley, they’ll only go in my library,” Aziraphale said. “No one will be in there except for me and you.”

Crowley stood for a long moment, groping for an explanation that would meet with Aziraphale’s limited understanding of interior design, that it was not, in fact, just to  _impress_  other people, but to just… look nice. For the sake of looking nice.

Of course, Aziraphale had no idea what  _looked nice_.

“Leave it with me,” Crowley said, finally.

“Oh,  _really_?” Aziraphale asked. “Because, my dearest, my only one, if you really hate it—”

“I don’t,” Crowley said. “I don’t hate it. Do you love it? Really? You saw it and you really  _wanted_  it, you wanted to sit in that chair, and have it in your library, and read in it?” Crowley was speaking softly, and Aziraphale inhaled, and nodded his head. “Good. Good. Then I don’t hate it.”

“But the tartan—”

“Angel,” Crowley said, and he cupped Aziraphale’s cheeks, drawing him closer, their noses touching. “If you ask me to, I will wallpaper and carpet this whole cottage in tartan.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, slightly breathlessly, furrowing his brow. “I think that would be a bit far, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Crowley said. “I’ll  _do_  it, but I won’t live here with you, if you ask me to do that.”

Aziraphale laughed, dragging him closer by his hips. “You wicked thing.”

“That’s me. But no, no, angel, I don’t hate the chair. I don’t! Not if you love it.”

“You do a bit.”

“I do a bit,” Crowley admitted. “But it’s  _yours_.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, overcome with it: the warmth, the love, the affection, with  _Crowley_. “Let’s make love.”

“I knew it was the tartan that got you going,” Crowley murmured, and he dragged Aziraphale by the tie toward his new chair.

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

It was another two days later that Aziraphale came down from London again, and the house was nearly fully furnished. Crowley’s white leather sofa, he noted, was in the kitchen, as was his television, in the open space beside the patio doors. The living room was a delight: warm and luxuriant, the fireplace opened up and set up ready, although it was May.

Crowley led him upstairs, and Aziraphale beamed at the art he had displayed in the hall: his Da Vinci, of course, but one of Aziraphale’s Van Goghs, too, and various sketches of the two of them… The upstairs bathroom was an obscenity, with a great, claw-footed tub big enough to host  _four_ , let alone the two of them; the guest bedroom was neat and clean and airy, perfect for when Adam came to stay; the bedroom was lovely… There was a balcony, even, connecting the bedroom and Aziraphale’s library, and Crowley had set window boxes full of sweet flowers along the railing, had put a bench out here beneath the covering of the eave – even in drizzling rain, they might sit out here, outside.

The library, though.

Oh, the library.

Aziraphale gasped as he stood on the threshold, and he looked at the tall, varnished shelves, all empty and  _waiting_  for books to be set upon them, and Crowley led him through to the side where the light streamed into the room from the wide window in one corner. Aziraphale’s desk had been set against the window, that he might look over what was currently just lawn, but what Crowley would  _transform_ , once they’d moved in…

“And your chair,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale turned around.

His mouth fell open.

Aziraphale’s tartan chair and Crowley’s leather one were sat side by side, a mahogany table set to match all the bookshelves set between them, a circular rug settling on the boards of the floor.

Crowley had set brown leather accents on the arms of the chair, like the patches on Aziraphale’s elbows, and put a single, leather cushion upon its seat; the leather chair had a tartan cushion shaped like a heart settled against its back, and a red tartan antimacassar upon its back.

“Little bits of one in the other. You know. Like us,” Crowley murmured. It was one of the most sentimental things he had ever said, and Aziraphale felt his eyes burn. “I thought you’d like it.”

Aziraphale looked at him, and Crowley leaned back, surprised. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, and Aziraphale saw his eyes widen, saw his pupils shift just slightly, his lips parting. Aziraphale’s eyes were wet with tears, but he could hardly help it.

“Back to the chair?” Crowley asked, weakly.

Aziraphale had him on the floor, and kissed his every inch of skin.

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

They went for lunch in Chesterton-Burnleigh, at a little pub on the main square. Crowley was…  _not_  well put-together.

He’d been dressed hastily in a blue shirt and some tight jeans, but he was visibly ruffled, his hair a muss about his head, his knees shaky as he walked, and he just couldn’t  _help_  himself as he leaned on Aziraphale.

They got looks.

Aziraphale, Crowley was fairly certain, enjoyed them.

(Actually, so did Crowley.)

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

They moved everything down in a removals truck. Mostly, it was Aziraphale’s books, although there were Crowley’s clothes to consider, and Aziraphale’s, too, as well as various bric-a-brac.

Crowley had bought a standing piano. On top of the piano, they set Crowley’s accordion, and Aziraphale’s viola. Their picnic basket, which they had bought in Blandford Forum a long time back, they set in the entrance hall, always ready to go. Aziraphale’s fine china went in a cupboard; Crowley’s sleek, black-and-white dinnerplates went in another cupboard.

Aziraphale’s Victorian tea set, decorated with bees – of which he had always been quite fond, despite the fact that his current body was  _very_  allergic to their sting – went alongside Crowley’s Meiji tea set, decorated with dragons, in the same display cabinet[3].

Their respective boots and shoes went on the shoe rack in the hall. Crowley’s coffee table books went on the coffee table: Aziraphale’s books went absolutely everywhere. Aziraphale’s singular plant – a flowering cactus he had pilfered from Crowley’s discard in 1972 – settled on the desk in his library: Crowley’s plants went absolutely everywhere.

It felt right, in an indescribable way, to have all their possessions side-by-side, settled amidst one another. It felt right, to lie in the same bed, under sheets that were  _not_  tartan, where Crowley could sleep while Aziraphale paged through his book the whole night through.

It felt…

Well.

This was everything, now.

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

_“Can I come down and visit this summer?”_  Adam asked, and Aziraphale smiled slightly, leaning his chin on his hand and looking to Crowley, who was currently wrapping chicken breasts in bacon. The demon turned to look at him, and gave a nod, his lips quirking up into a grin. Aziraphale adjusted his grip on the phone, cradling it between his ear and his shoulder as he tapped his pen absently against the counter top.

They weren’t going to have a kitchen island, initially, but Aziraphale rather loved it: he could sit here and watch Crowley work in the kitchen, and be fed little bits and pieces… Yes, a kitchen island was  _certainly_  a delight, and made delicacies so much more accessible.

Crowley’s arse, he noted, was looking  _especially_  delectable in his current jeans, which he was wearing almost every day, at the moment, and were…  _Ahem_. Well. Later.

“Yes, of course, my dear,” Aziraphale said quietly. “We set up the guest room already, in anticipation, although Crowley’s got a fair bit of work he wants to do on the property, first, so he’ll probably be very busy the next month or so.”

“ _For his garden?”_

“Oh, yes. He has big plans, I assure you.”

_“What about you, Uncle Ezra?”_

“Well, what do you mean, what about me?”

“ _Aren’t you doing work?”_

“No, my dear boy, I am  _retired_. And unlike my distinguished counterpart—” Crowley was laughing, and Aziraphale ignored him. “— I have no plans of  _creating_  work for myself for at least a few months, whilst I settle in. I may restore some books here and there, but that’s never  _work_.”

 _“Dunno how you can stand it,_ ” Adam said, tutting. “ _I’d get bored, with nothing to do at all.”_

“Oh, I have things to do,” Aziraphale murmured, and he watched Crowley grin as he set the chicken down to marinate. “What do you say to July, my dear, hm? You might come down for a Saturday and leave the Sunday, if you wish.”

_“Can I bring Dog?”_

“Of course,” Aziraphale said. “I shouldn’t dream of you leaving him behind. Delightful animal.”

 _“You just like that he hates Uncle Crowley_ ,” Adam said, wryly.

“I don’t  _dislike_  that,” Aziraphale admitted. Crowley threw a banana at him, but Aziraphale caught it. “I’m being pelted with projectiles, so I fear I must hang up, dear boy. When are you and the family off to Spain?”

“ _Day after tomorrow_ ,” Adam muttered. “ _Don’t see what the fuss is all about, Spain. What’s in Spain you can’t get in Butlins?”_

“A decent glass of wine, for one,” Aziraphale said. “Like as not, a  _comfortable_  place to sleep instead of a mattress made of spring and bed bugs. Siestas, tapas, sunshine…”

“ _I don’t drink wine,”_  Adam said.

Aziraphale did not have an adequate response to this, and Crowley took the phone from his hand, holding it to his ear.

“Pepper and the lads going with you?” Crowley asked.

“ _Just Pepper_. _”_

“You’re gonna be on golden beaches that are actually warm, and  _clean_. Why do you want to go to Butlins?”

“ _They’ve got karaoke_.”

“He’s your godson,” Crowley said, shoving the phone back into Aziraphale’s hand. “I’m cutting off ties.”

“Call us when you’re back, dear,” Aziraphale said. “Yes, that was rather nasty of him, but I’m sure he didn’t mean it. And the Spanish have karaoke too. They do indeed, yes. Alright. Bye-bye.”

Aziraphale put down the phone.

“I don’t have to start work on the greenhouse right away,” Crowley murmured, leaning on the kitchen counter and delicately removing the banana from Aziraphale’s hand. “We could, uh, put  _you_  to work.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asked, arching an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Well,” Crowley said, tilting his head slightly to the side and looking thoughtful. “All these new surfaces… We should probably christen them.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale murmured. “Yes. A  _very_  interesting proposition. Well, my dear.” He patted the marble surface of the counter. “Do hop up.”

Crowley shivered…

And obeyed.

 

[1] The last time he’d said, “We’re as good as,” Aziraphale had said, “Not quite, my dear. Perhaps one day.”

[2] Aziraphale tried to cook, now and then, but it was always disastrous for all involved, as he became swiftly distracted and ended up wandering away from whatever it was he was meant to be doing.

[3] When Aziraphale had said, somewhat anxiously, “You know, my dear, I think your dragons are frightening my bees,” Crowley had replied, somewhat smugly, “Yes, my angel, I know.”


End file.
